“What’s west Texas like?” her friend asks.
“Well, it’s like the surface of Mars, but it smells like gasoline,” I say, truthfully.
“That’s why we only pay a dollar forty per gallon,” a dude who was not involved with this conversation and who is not known to any of us says, butting in.
“I take the subway,” I say, deadpan, giving him a hard look.
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